Page 31 of Beautifully Savage Butterfly

He wails again and starts to pulse around me. I wrap my hand around his cock, catching the hot splatters of his cum, using it as lube to stroke him through his orgasm. It only takes one more thrust for me to follow him over the edge, the tug of his inner muscles around my cock punching the breath out of my lungs as I spill into the condom.

Next time I don’t want anything between us. I want to paint his insides and leave my cum dripping from his hole when I’m done with him. I went to the free clinic and got tested weeks ago, before Elio sucked me off in the bathroom, before I had any reason to think there would ever be anything between us. But if I’m being really honest with myself, it’s possible I entertained a fantasy or two about hate-fucking the bratty mob boss, even back then.

I slam my hips forward one last time, grinding against his ass cheeks and groaning as I savor the last few dizzying pulses of my fading orgasm. My hand is dripping with his release, his cock already starting to soften in my grasp. I sag against him and press my face into the back of his neck again, loose tendrils of my hair falling around my face.

“I feel like you’ve peeked into all my dirtiest fantasies and handed them to me on the tarnished platter I’ve been craving,” he murmurs, his voice as raw as my insides feel.

“What, no one’s ever fucked you like they hate you before?” I try to keep the question light, but a possessive feeling swells in my chest. If he says someone has, I might have to find whoever it was and rip their head clean off their body for daring to touch him.

“No one has ever seen me the way you do,” Elio says. His response dries up all the words in my throat and soothes the jealousy inside me.

I growl and press my lips to the back of his neck, then slip my spent cock free. I toss the used condom onto the ground a few feet away, into a heap of trash that’s already there, then pull my pants up. Elio keeps his hands braced on the wall, his ass bare, his pants around his ankles. Even in the dark, it’s the kind of sight I could get off to a thousand times and still dream about it.

I crouch down behind him and sink my teeth into his ass cheek. He lets out a tired gasp, pushing his ass towards me, still eager for more. I laugh quietly and grab his pants to pull them back into place. His breathing slows as I tuck his cock away, zip him up, and redo his belt. When I stand up again, he finally lowers his hands from the wall and turns to face me.

“Let me drive you home?” he offers.

I nod, then catch his jaw in one hand, leaning in close enough to feel his breath and the humidity radiating off of his sweat-slicked skin.

“Thanks, Brat,” I murmur, catching his lips in a kiss.

It feels different without the desperate, hungry edge of lust riding us both hard. I take a minute to relish the soft give of his mouth and the sweetness of his tongue wrapping around mine. I peeled back a layer of Elio tonight, but I’m sure I’ve only scratched the surface. He’s a mess of contradictions, his morals dark, light, and dozens of shades of gray. He’s cocky and self-assured, but desperate to be used and humiliated. He wants to pull me into his world, but he doesn’t want to force my hand. He’s a stone-cold killer—I saw it with my own two eyes last night—but right now he’s clinging to my shirt and melting into my mouth with a sweet submissiveness that makes me ache.

“Actually, you might as well just drop me back at the hospital,” I say when I release him. Elio frowns, but he doesn’t press me with any more questions about my brother. At least not tonight. Will I tell him if he asks later?

Honestly, I have no fucking clue.

What I do know is that Elio is a complication I don’t fucking need on top of everything else. But I think it might already be too late.

Chapter 14

ORION

There’s something meditative about the moments right before a fight. It’s like everything else gets turned down and all my senses crystallize. I’m able to focus on the moment and the space I’m occupying. It’s the same thing that happens when I get my hands on Elio, the whole world blotted out around me so I can zero in on what’s in front of me.

Memories of Elio’s moans and the ghost of his skin under my fingertips are the last things I need to be thinking about right now. But it’s harder to shake off the thoughts than it should be. Even with the grounding smell of sweat and blood in the air, and the white noise of the crowd roaring just outside the tunnel, I’m not as focused as I should be.

Thoughts of the Mafia underboss aren’t the only thing messing with my Zen tonight though. I close my eyes and roll my head one way, then the other, stretching the muscles along the back of my neck and drawing in deep, calming breaths through my nose. The kind of calming breaths that don’t rattle or hurt. Breaths that don’t require a ventilator. Unlike the breaths Jack is taking tonight, still stuck in that hospital bed after three days without any improvement so far. And I’ve been pretty much living in the too-hard chair at his bedside just as long.

All the cues that it’s almost time to fight have my heart rate up and my senses dialed in, my muscles twitching expectantly, adrenaline giving me energy I haven’t had in days. I open my eyes and bounce on my toes, warming up with a few jabs at the air. But underneath it, I can still feel the bone-deep weariness from too few hours of sleep and a steady diet of hospital food. Tonight might be my first loss in an official UFL fight, and I’m too exhausted to even care the way I should.

I care, but compared to other shit, winning or losing tonight feels more trivial than it ever has. Or maybe I just want to convince myself it’s trivial, because there’s a staggering amount of pressure in accepting that if I slip off the top of my game, then the UFL checks dry up. I’m already older than anybody else in the sport, past my prime if you listen to the announcers and sports reporters. And if they’re saying that bullshit when I’m still undefeated, I don’t want to imagine the headlines if and when I finally go down.

My trainer, Terry, pats me on the shoulder, jarring me out of my thoughts with a wordless reminder that it’s time to shake it all off and go do the one thing I know how to do. Make someone hurt.

“You good, Barros?” he checks, giving me a little nudge and following me down the tunnel.

I grunt around the mouthguard shoved between my teeth and nod. I’m as good as I’m going to get, anyway. And even if I weren’t, the walk down the tunnel to the ring isn’t the time to spill my personal struggles to him. He knows about Jack. He trained Jack and was almost as devastated as I was when he ended up paralyzed. Poor fucker ended up stuck with the less charismatic of the two of us, and had to say goodbye to his dream of earning a cut of the sweet sponsorship checks Jack was sure to bring in. I know that’s not the only reason Terry gave a fuck, but sometimes it’s easier to let myself be cynical and bitter about it.

As soon as my feet hit the mat, my eyes snap to the crowd. I don’t even have to try to seek out Elio among the masses. He’s right there, front and center, exactly where I expected him to be. My lips twitch with a smirk at the eager way he’s sitting on the edge of his seat, his expression ravenous.

The bell rings and I jerk my attention to the man in front of me for the first time. My opponent, Greg Nelson, a scrappy up-and-comer who’s been making waves for months now. If he lays me out tonight, it’s going to put him on the map. Add in his winning smile and the way he’s been eating up the limelight lately, and he’ll be plastered all over cereal boxes and commercials for athletic gear in no time. It almost makes the thought of losing bearable.

Almost.

Now that I’m standing here under the bright lights with the cheers from the crowd throbbing in my ears, I want to win. I want to wipe the cocky grin off of Greg’s face and make him give his post-fight interview with a fat lip. I want the press to have to twist themselves into pretzels trying to justify suggesting that I retire when I still haven’t lost a fight.

I wait for him to make his first move, tracking every twitch of his muscles and shift of his weight, but for at least five seconds he doesn’t move. Five seconds is an eternity in MMA. Five seconds is enough time to knock someone’s head clean off their shoulders. It’s enough time to win or lose a fight.

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